2

Ok. I had two options. One, I could try to button up my blouse as quickly as possible and try changing in the bathroom instead. Or two, I could still try slipping into the t-shirt and hope that no one noticed me. Of course, either way I’d still have to wait to leave until…

“Deni! I thought that was your car. White with a yellow interior? That’s something only you would have picked.”

Wham! I sat up so fast my head hit the roof. “Marley, hey. What are you doing here? And I didn‘t pick it, my dad…”

“It’s Marlene now.” Her brown eyes glared down at me for a second before switching over to a feline I’ve-got-a-canary look. “And I’m simply showing Kevin around town.” She flashed her bleached white teeth at her companion, who I’d forgotten in the shock of seeing the most manipulative woman on earth standing next to my car. Especially since she was supposed to be doing graduate work in Philadelphia. Marley, I mean, Marlene, slid her perfectly manicured hand under the massive bicep of the man next to her. “He’s new around here.”

“Marle- ene, you’re new around here. How could you be showing anyone around?” I glanced up to see what kind of low-life was hanging around her and froze. He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen up close. Somewhere around 6’ tall, medium brown hair that the sun had lightened to a dirty blond in places, sea-green eyes, and the tan and physique of a man who works and plays all day in all kinds of weather. To be perfectly honest, he seemed far too masculine to be hanging out with the likes of Marlene. She always seemed to prefer the pampered rich types, not a man who, gasp, worked for a living. At least he had the decency to look uncomfortable.

Marlene’s grin widened. “You know, Deni, it’s not that I’m not proud of you for experimenting with fashion, but I think I should tell you as a friend, that look doesn’t work for you.”

Horror struck I looked down to realize that I’d just had an entire conversation with my high school rival in front of her gorgeous boyfriend while wearing nothing but my nice slacks and my not-so-nice bra.

Great, I managed to flash two men in one day.

1

My thumb hit the “unlock” button on my remote keypad as I walked through the parking garage. Thank goodness I remembered I had an extra t-shirt in my gym bag. My white Lexus 4-door sedan came into view. What a beautiful gift my parents had given me for my birthday last year. It sure took the pain out of turning twenty-six.

I always meant to keep it clean, but somehow life’s busy-ness always kept a sparkling, immaculate car just out of my reach. Opening the car door, I dug through the McDonald’s bags scattered on the back seat. I know I left that gym bag in here somewhere. Back when I promised myself I was going to hit that gym and work out four times a week. Back when I vowed I’d get into that two-piece bathing suit in time to wear it at the beach. Back when I got on Weight Watcher’s and swore off McDonald’s.

Eureka! I found the bag stuffed under the front seat. I’ll just change into it here. Nobody will notice me in this dark garage. I crawled into the back seat, kicking the dead soldiers of Dr. Pepper cans out of my way.

Just as I finished unbuttoning the last button on my blouse, I heard footsteps. Not just one set, but at least two. I could hear them talking loudly. When I heard the laugh I cringed. I’d know that laugh anywhere.

5

Only a handful of times in my life have seconds felt like minutes.

Age: 9: I flushed Mom’s antique diamond ring down the toilet (accidentally, of course). I still remember the horror as I watched the water swirl around and around and around in the bowl, taking the ring somewhere it never deserved to go.

Age 15: I backed Dad’s brand new truck into a neighbor’s mailbox---with him in the passenger seat. I could’ve died during those seconds of silence waiting for him to say something.

Age 22: The dentist’s drill hit a nerve during my first and last root canal. They had to peel me off the ceiling.

Age 26: Sitting in Mr. Zepp’s office, both of us staring at my gag gift bra.

To his credit, Mr. Zepp quickly glanced away and tried to meet my eyes again. Only I couldn’t meet his. Mortified is not a word I use to describe myself very often. I’m the kind of girl who’ll shrug off embarrassment, usually with a self-deprecating crack.

But this morning I wasn’t feeling like myself. I felt like crying. In front of Mr. Zepp. During my interview. So I did what anyone would’ve done in my position.

I ran back to the bathroom.

Shutting myself in the nearest stall, I slammed down the toilet seat and sat on it. Normally I wouldn’t do something like that, either. I’d watched enough Learning Channel documentaries to know what kind of germs lurked around here. But like I said, I wasn’t myself.

“It’s time for a change,” I whispered.

4

“T-Type?” I stuttered. I’d spent hours preparing for this interview, reading websites, books, anything I could get my hands on that would guarantee me success in every endeavor. I’d cleaned up my resume, practiced interview questions like ‘So tell me a little about yourself’ and ‘Where do you see yourself in 10 years?’. The one thing that I hadn’t practiced were my actual skills.

“Yes. How many words?” After a few horrified nanoseconds he added, “per minute?”

I couldn’t even stammer out an answer. How do I know how fast I typed? I don’t type- I don’t even text message if I can help it! My mind began to spin, taking me all the way back to the required typing classes in high school. I never did particularly well, but I was sure that I’d improved since then. Surely. With age comes wisdom and all that, right?

“Twenty.”

“Deni, you’ve applied to be the Vice President’s private secretary and you only type twenty words per minute? Do you even know how to take dictation?” I shook my head ‘no’ and he continued, “I really expected better from you. Perhaps you should go back to your station.”

Shaking, I rose. “Mr. Zepp, I’m really, really…” And there I stopped. Mr. Zepp’s eyes had stayed on my face through the whole, though brief, interview. But now they’d slid down to my chest. Righteous indignation took over.

“Mr. Zepp, I am not the kind of girl that will do just anything to get ahead! I have morals, I have standards. You should be ashamed, you should…”

That was when I felt something dry and crinkly brushing against my stomach.

“Deni-”

But I’d already seen it.

The paper towel that I’d stuffed into my shirt had slipped down at some point and my bra was showing through. That wasn’t the worst of it. A while back, one of my friends had found this bra in a specialty store and given it to me as a gag gift. I guess in my rush I didn’t pay too much attention to what I put on under my clothes. That was a big mistake, because I was now standing before the bank’s hiring manager wearing two faces. My usual, horrified one, and a great big yellow smiley faced one.

3

It had been a bad idea to try and wash the stain out. I now stared, horrified, into the restroom mirror at the delicate pink flowers on my bra. A huge wet spot the size of my hand made every mole on my chest clearly visible. I had to get to that interview with Mr. Zepp, but I had no jacket to cover it up. I turned on the power hand drier and thrust my chest underneath it.

Susan, Mr. Zepp’s secretary, popped her head in. Still contorting under the drier, I looked up.

“Uh, pardon, me. Am I intruding?” Susan stared at my blouse.

“No, of course not. I’ll be right out.”

“Mr. Zepp doesn’t have much time,” Susan said flatly.

No more time to dry. I stuffed a paper towel in my shirt, checked my hair, and scooted out the door. I briskly made my way to Zepp’s door, which was open a crack. Still, I should knock.

Tap, tap, tap.

I heard Mr. Zepp on the phone, so I waited outside the door.

“I have to go; I have an interview to do,” Mr. Zepp said. I heard the phone land in the cradle. “Come in,” he called.

Mr. Zepp had a cozy office with bookshelves all around. His desk faced the window overlooking the Hudson. I longed for an office like this, instead of my cubicle in Customer Service. My “black hole” sucked me in away from the world. I could work all day without even knowing what kind of weather we were having. This meeting could be the beginning of my new career, my ascent up the corporate ladder, where I could sit in front of windows and work with the sun warming my toes . . .

“Have a seat, Deni. How fast do you type again?”

2

You know how they say, “If life gives you lemons make lemonade?”

I’ve tried that.

I’ve also figuratively tried lemon squares, lemon bars, lemon sherbert, lemon cake ... even lemon muffins. Know what I’ve decided? I hate lemons.

Why the lemon analogy? Because every day I’m forced to bite into another one. I mean, you already know about my horrible morning. Take that and multiply it by oh . . . half my life, and you have a whopping 5,000 days where something has gone wrong.

“Good morning, Ms. Hoyd.”

Tom Delacroix walks behind me through the back door of New York Savings and Loan. He’s the bank’s head teller and my equal in age, but certainly not in appearance. I get the feeling if he could’ve been born in 1905 he would have. Every day I see him in a three-piece Armani suit, cuff links, silk tie, and shoes polished so fine he can probably use them as mirrors.

“Hi, Tom.”

And no matter how many times I tell him, “just call me Deni,” I’m greeted “Ms. Hoyd.”

I’ve given up trying to correct the man.

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” I say.

Not only would Tom hop on the first time machine back to 1905, but if he had his way he’d probably become a meteorologist, too. Weather is always a safe subject with him.

Tom eyes me over the top of his gold wire-rim glasses. “Did you know about that stain on your shirt?”